One Thing
by something2remember
Summary: He had one thing. Without it, he was nothing. Without it, there was nothing to live for. M for safety.
1. Chapter 1

He sat at the piano, his fingers wandering over the keys, playing a tuneless disorder of notes. He paused for a moment to pick up the glass of whiskey next to him, emptying the last of it into his mouth and swishing it around before swallowing. And then, wincing as pain shot up his right leg, he limped over to the couch and slumped into it, popping another small white pill into his mouth. He shook the bottle and listened to the rattle it made. What had been full an hour ago was now almost empty.

He had one thing. He had his job. His passion. And that was all. That was all he needed. All he wanted. But now he had nothing. They had taken it away from him. He was nothing but a miserable cripple now. He swallowed another pill. Not long now, he thought.

House remembered every patient he ever had. Not their names, but that wasn't the important part anyway. Their symptoms, diagnoses, whether they had lived or died, and sometimes even what they had said to him. He thought back to one patient. Unexplained paralysis. The man was a musician. The guy wanted to die because he couldn't play anymore. The way he had explained it to House, music was his one thing. Without his music he was nothing. House knew what he meant more than ever now. He had cured the musician. The man went back to his music, and House to his medicine. This time there was no cure. He had lost his one thing for good. He emptied two more pills from the bottle into his palm, and swallowed them.

That was life. It was in the very nature of life that everything changes. Death, he thought, would be much better. He swallowed the rest of the pills in the bottle. He wouldn't miss a thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Pain shot through his body. His head throbbed. His leg was killing him. Which, he thought, meant he was still alive. Dammit. Those idiots. House opened his eyes and stared up at the white tiles of the hospital ceiling. He heard someone gasp and he sat up slowly to see Cuddy rush over, looking as if she hadn't slept and looking more than a little guilty. He opened his mouth to and yell at her but all that came out was a rasping sound. Cuddy poured him a glass of water and he drank it quickly before slamming it down. She pulled her pen light out of her pocket and shined it in each eye, checking his pupils.

"You idiots!" His voice sounded weak. At least he could talk now. "Why did you save me?"

"House," she started.

"What did you think would happen when they took away my license?" He accused her.

"You didn't need to kill yourself," she started again.

"Of course I did!" He interrupted. "What, did you think I'd just find a new profession? Gee, it's a good thing the board revoked my license, it frees me up to go play tennis!" House pointedly looked at his leg. He knew he was making Cuddy feel guilty, but that was her fault, after all, for keeping him alive.

"There are other things you can do," Cuddy says, but she herself can't think of anything House would be interested in.

"No, there aren't. I had my job, Cuddy and you know that was the only thing I had," he argued.

"You can't just die," Cuddy replied.

"Why not?" House asked.

"Because...because there are other things in life," she said.

"Not for me," he said.

"We'll find something, House. You could work as a medical assistant or something," Cuddy pleaded.

"Are you kidding me?" the former diagnostician asked, insulted by her suggestion.

Cuddy bit her lip, rested her hand on his, and then left the room. "I want my discharge papers processed by tomorrow," House called after her.

He shouldn't have scared Cuddy away, he thought. Now he had nothing to do. He tapped his fingers against the plastic siding of the bed absent mindedly when Wilson entered the room.

"Hey," he greeted House.

"Well if it isn't wonder-boy himself, the one who is responsible for all this," House remarked.

"Yeah, I'm such a horrible person, I saved you life," Wilson said sarcastically.

"I was going to say cruel, but horrible works, too," House shot back.

"If you tried to kill yourself to make Cuddy feel guilty, you've done a good job at it. I saw her walking out of here. She looked like she was about to cry," Wilson accused.

"She doesn't need anyone to make her feel guilty; she does a good enough job at that herself. I killed myself because I did not want to live anymore, which it seems none of you idiots can wrap your head around," House ranted.

"You're afraid of change," Wilson said.

"Save the psychoanalysis for your patients. I'm going home as soon as Cuddy can process the discharge papers." House said, mentally adding to himself, and when I get home, I'm trying this again, and this time, I won't fail.

"House, I think this time you've won yourself a trip to the fourth floor," Wilson replied.

"You wouldn't," House said.

"You almost killed yourself, what other choice do we have?" Wilson asked.

"Hmm," House said, pretending to think. "How about letting me go home?"

"So you can overdose and try kill yourself again?" Wilson inquired.

"Well I wouldn't have to if you hadn't stopped me in the first place," House said.

Wilson shook his head. "I brought your game boy," he said, handing house the small plastic toy. House grabbed it and Wilson left. He didn't bother turning it on. Instead he counted in his head, 5...4...3...2...1...and right on cue the ducklings walked in, Cameron in the lead.

"What is this, a menagerie?" House asked. "I mean, the glass windows certainly fit, though I thought there are usually more plants..."

"If you want us to go we can..." Cameron offered, her voice hesitant. Foreman walked over, penlight in hand, to repeat what Cuddy had done. House snatched the penlight from him. Chase was holding a bible.

"If you want to stay," House said, "the wombat puts his bible down, and I keep the dark one's nifty light." Foreman rolled his eyes and Chase put the bible on the bedside table. House made a mental note to make sure Chase took it with him. Wouldn't want anyone thinking he was actually reading it, he snorted, though he doubted anyone would.

"How are you?" Cameron asked.

"Exuberant," House replied sarcastically. "For a moment there I was worried I would have to live without my work, but where would I be without my good friend Wilson? Wait a minute."

"You're blaming Wilson for saving your life?" Foreman asked.

"House, it's a job," Chase said.

"It is not a job!" House yelled. "And anyone who can't understand that should leave." Chase shook his head and walked towards the door. "Take your bible with you!" House called, but he didn't turn back. House rolled his eyes.

"You need anything?" Foreman asked.

"Yeah," House said. "Another bottle of Vicodin and discharge papers." Foreman started to leave. House pointed to the bible. Foreman picked it up and left. Cameron and House sat in silence for a minute.

"Wilson panicked when he found you. He thought you were dead," Cameron told him.

"I wish," House muttered.

"I don't think Cuddy has slept in two days. We're worried about you, House," she went on, ignoring his comment. Her forehead was scrunched up in worry and eyes had dark circles under them. Cameron. The one who always cared too much. She was like a puppy. She wouldn't understand if he killed himself, only that he left her.

"Cameron," he said, trying to make her understand. "I'm already dead. Just not physically. Let me go."

"I can't," she said, squeezing his hand and then leaving.


End file.
